


Basic Facts of the Universe

by bromeliadslove



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Gaslighting, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, abuse recovery, alternate universe in which parse is a bitchy editor and jack is a tired history prof, former parse/oc (we hate him!), i know nothing abt hockey so here. have this au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29710848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bromeliadslove/pseuds/bromeliadslove
Summary: In Kent's defense, he didn't mean to call his ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend after his current boyfriend kicked him out. It was just one part in a series of chaotic events.Now, Kent is staying at Bittle's house, eating Bittle's food, and wearing the clothes Jack left behind.It's not awkward at all.Feat. Totally not traumatized Kent Parson, permanently exhausted Jack Zimmermann, and an Eric Bittle torn between making snide comments and baking pie. But hey, why choose one when he can have both?
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Kent "Parse" Parson, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 18
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chonkytheslur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chonkytheslur/gifts).



> for you, annie :3c consider this a thank you gift for giving me irreparable brain rot
> 
> (I would like to say that I am in fact a Comm major AND an editor so if you see some bitchy comments about them, it's not an accurate portrayal of how I feel lol I just like to make fun of myself)

It is a basic fact of the universe that Kent Parson is going to fuck things up.

He doesn’t  _ try _ to, despite anything his long list of ex-boyfriends might say. It’s not like Kent wakes up in the morning and thinks,  _ Gee, how can I ruin everything good in my life today? _ He just finds himself replaying the same mistakes, no matter how hard he tries to be better, to be  _ worthy. _

Today is no exception.

Kent finds himself flat on his back in the snow, his arms too shaky to push himself up. The slam of the door rings in his ears, and he stares blankly at his house, as if  _ looking _ will be enough to convince Jared to let him back in.

The door does not open. 

It takes him five tries to call Swoops, mostly due to his inability to stop shaking. It’s because of the cold and the lack of coat and the fabric wet from snow sticking to his skin, and it has nothing-- _ nothing-- _ to do with the echo of Jared’s voice in Kent’s mind.

Swoops doesn’t answer on the first ring or second or third, and Kent  _ knows. _ He knows he used up all his chances with Swoops, just like he used up his chances with every single other good person in his life. Kent should have known not to call. Kent should have  _ known _ Swoops wouldn’t want to speak with him--

There’s a soft click, and Kent hears Swoops draw in a breath.

“I know,” Kent says frantically, before Swoops can tell him all the things he did wrong. “I  _ know, _ Swoops, I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry--fuck, I can’t--I don’t--I don’t have my  _ coat,  _ and my--my wallet is still _ in there, _ and my keys—Swoops,  _ he took my keys,  _ and he won’t unlock the fucking door, and  _ please,  _ Swoops, I’m  _ sorry--” _

“Parse?”

Kent freezes.

Two facts that lead to Kent’s inevitable destruction:

  1. Bittle’s contact information is saved under _Smartass Southern Pie Fucker,_ which places him right above Swoops.
  2. Swoops is not the one who answered the phone.



Kent nearly drops his phone in his haste to hang up. 

He makes sure this time that he has his finger on Swoops’s number before hitting  _ call. _ It goes straight to voicemail.

Kent rests his forehead on his knees and breathes. And breathes. And breathes. His lungs are burning, and no matter how much air he inhales, it’s not enough.

He’s fine. He has a sweater. He doesn’t need Swoops to come pick him up because Jared is  _ going _ to let him back in, and Kent shouldn’t have bothered to call after everything he said to Swoops, even though Swoops was  _ wrong, _ and--

Kent’s phone starts to ring, and he answers without thinking (just like he does  _ everything else _ because  _ that’s his problem; _ he never  _ thinks _ ).

“Parse, hon?” Bittle says. “Are you at your house right now?”

Kent should hang up. Nothing good will come from running to his ex’s boyfriend for help, especially now that Kent has finally managed to  _ talk _ to Jack like a normal human being instead of the embodiment of toxic clinginess he was all those years ago.

“I can’t go in,” Kent says. “He won’t--the door’s locked, and I--”

“I’m drivin’ to your house,” Bittle says, calmly, slowly, every word deliberate. “Do you need to call the police?”

_ “No!” _ Kent shouts. Bittle inhales sharply, and Kent pushes his hair out of his eyes, his hands trembling. “I mean--no. No. Don’t call the police. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

Bittle’s silence is telling, and Kent can picture the thin-lipped look of disbelief.

“Stay on the phone ‘til I get there,” Bittle finally says. “Do  _ not _ hang up on me.”

And Kent presses the heels of his palms into his eyes because he is  _ not _ going to start crying while Jack’s boyfriend is on the line.

Also, it’s cold, and the tears might freeze to Kent’s skin, and then he would get frostbite on his face and be hideous forever.

Not that he isn’t already hideous. But. Frostbite would hardly help.

(He’s being melodramatic. The snow is melting, and it therefore can’t be  _ that _ cold out. Kent is making a big deal out of nothing once again.)

Kent stays this way, face buried in his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. 

He hears the screech of tires. 

“Lord!” 

Kent looks up to see Bittle sitting in his car with the window rolled down. Kent scrambles to his feet, brushing the snow off his pants. 

When Kent tries the door, it’s locked. For a moment, panic shoots up his throat because, for all he knows, Bittle just won’t unlock the door. And that’s  _ fine;  _ Bittle has every right not to let Kent in, but—

“Sorry,” Bittle says. “Forgot to unlock the door.”

The door swings open under Kent’s hand, and he slides in. Bittle’s car is warm—much warmer than Kent expected—but he can’t stop shivering. 

As Bittle drives home, Kent waits for the questions to begin. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Kit to hold and to bury his face in her fur. But even that small comfort is too much for Kent, and so he sits in Bittle’s car with nothing to hold onto but air. 

Kent wraps his fingers around his seatbelt tightly, the edges biting into his skin.

“What happened?” Bittle asks softly. 

Kent stares out the window and swallows. Trees fly by, their empty branches blurring into a portrait of brown. His eyes are stinging, and he  _ is not _ going to do this right now. He has managed thus far to keep from crying, and he refuses to start now. 

“I fucked up,” Kent says, his voice cracking on the last word. 

He waits for Bittle to probe further. Maybe Bittle sees how much Kent  _ doesn’t want to talk about it,  _ though, because he lets the matter drop. 

They spend the rest of the car ride in silence. 

When Bittle pulls into his driveway, Kent snaps back into focus.

“I can stay at a hotel,” Kent says. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bittle says.

He steps out of the car, and Kent trails after him up to the house. 

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Kent protests. “I—Zimms—look, you guys won’t want me around, and I get that. I just need—“

His wallet. His keys. His clothes. His car. 

Kit. 

A wave of grief crashes over Kent for all the things he let Jared take away. While Kent is  _ aware _ that he let them slip through his fingers, it still feels like Jared ripped every single one from his grasp. 

“Jack won’t mind,” Bittle says, opening his door. “Besides, hon, you don’t even have a coat on.”

It is telling that this is all Bittle needs to say to get Kent to cave.

.

At 11:40 PM, Bitty is baking cupcakes.

Jack used to tease Bitty about the way he processed emotions through baking. Jack was always able to tell what mood Bitty was in, based on the baked goods. Pies are for good days (with a hierarchy from lemon meringue to rhubarb for  _ how  _ good). Cookies are for mediocre or low-energy days. Muffins are for days when Bitty feels like crying into a pillow while listening to Marina on loop.

Cupcakes, though. Cupcakes are for when Bitty is ready to kill.

Bitty pops the tray into the oven and exhales heavily. 

As far as lists of favorite people go, Parse wouldn’t make the top ten--if Bitty is being honest with himself, he doubts Parse would even make it on the  _ list. _

Jack asked him once why he disliked Parse so much, and Bitty had quipped back that he didn’t  _ need _ a reason to hate someone and, anyway, Bitty  _ didn’t _ hate Parse so it wasn’t like it mattered.

Bitty does, though, which is completely justified. Because. He’s  _ Parse. _

At least, Bitty  _ did _ hate Parse. Right now, Bitty has the sinking suspicion he’s starting to feel sorry for Parse instead, which is humiliating on so many levels. Also, Parse would most certainly turn up his nose at Bitty’s pity, and who can blame him? Bitty knows  _ he _ wouldn’t want pity from Jack’s new boyfriend.

Not that Jack has a new boyfriend. Bitty is just preparing for the inevitable.

Maybe Bitty has nothing to worry about, though--after all, history professors are hardly in the market right now. But then, Bitty doubts bakers are climbing the ranks on the dating apps, so who is he to judge? And apparently,  _ some people _ (definitely not Bitty) find it incredibly attractive when Jack pushes back his hair, with his tie loose and suit jacket rumpled, as he rambles on about World War I and various societal factors at play. Marissa from the Communications department certainly thought so, judging by the looks she constantly sent Jack’s way, even when Bitty was  _ right there-- _

Bitty starts another batch and whisks a tad more harshly than necessary.

It’s always the Communications majors. Bitty doesn’t even need to  _ ask _ what Parse studied in college--a snippy editor who gets paid to point out what writers get wrong? Classic Communications vibes.

Bitty glares at the batter as if it is to blame for Parse’s unfortunate personality.

_ Lord, _ Parse looked so small, huddled up in the snow. Bitty didn’t like the way Parse tensed up in the car, he didn’t like the fact that Parse didn’t have a coat on, he didn’t  _ like _ the panicked jumble of words Parse let out over the phone about a locked door and stolen keys, and--

Bitty sets the mixing bowl on the counter and inhales sharply. He needs to stay calm. He  _ is _ calm.

Bitty pours the batter into a new muffin tray, all the while trying his best not to seethe.

It could have been worse. It was over forty degrees out, the snow was more slush than anything, and it could have been  _ so much worse. _

The oven beeps. Bitty peers at the cupcakes before pulling them out and sliding the new tray in.

It doesn’t matter how hard Bitty tries to keep a positive attitude. Tonight has been a string of disasters and stupidity, and Bitty doesn’t know if he will ever recover. 

_ “Jack won’t mind.” _

Bitty wanted to slap himself the second those words left his mouth.  _ Jack won’t mind? _ Bitty truly is an idiot.

He can make a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t tell Parse  _ why _ Jack won’t mind, the altruistic end of the list about how Bitty’s relationship issues are paltry in comparison to Parse’s and  _ it’s none of his goddamn business  _ being near the front.

It’s not like it matters. Bitty will drive Parse off to one of his many friends in the morning, and then Parse will be none of  _ Bitty’s _ business.

A part of Bitty wonders if that’s really true. He’s not an idiot--he  _ knows _ Parse meant to call someone named Swoops. There was panic in Parse’s voice while he thought he was talking to Swoops, but there was also trust, like Parse had absolute assurance that Swoops would come.

And yet, Parse accepted Bitty’s call, and this  _ Swoops _ was nowhere to be found. 

.

The guest bed is so soft that Kent fears it will melt away. 

Kent stares up at the ceiling. The guest bedroom is all pale blues and soft whites, and they are probably supposed to make him feel calm. Bittle’s influence, Kent supposes.

Kent’s mind is a racetrack, though, and his thoughts are cars. Around and around they go, whizzing by with high-pitched whines.

He needs to call his bank and his credit companies to cancel his cards. He needs to get his stuff. He needs to call Swoops. He needs to get out of this house. He needs to get his cat.

_ He needs he needs he needs-- _

Kent has two missed calls from Jared.

He should call back.

_ What the fuck,  _ Kent should most definitely  _ not  _ call back, what the  _ fuck? _

Kent’s phone starts to ring again. He digs his fingers into the floral print comforter and inhales a few shuddering breaths. He is not going to answer because it’s not like he lacks self-control instincts entirely, no matter what Swoops might say--

“What,” Kent snaps, his phone in hand.

Damn it.

“Where are you?”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Bittle practically threw some of Jack’s sweats in Kent’s direction, saying how Kent would catch his death of cold if he stayed in his wet clothes. Kent feels like he’s swimming with the way the sleeves fall over his hands.

Jared asks through gritted teeth,  _ “Where are you?” _

“I’m--” Kent presses a fist into his thigh. “I’m not. I’m not coming back to the house.”

“You always say that,” Jared says dismissively. 

A strangled noise rises up Kent’s throat.

“I know,” Kent says. “But I’m not--I can’t. I need--”

“Shut up, Kent,” Jared says. “You sound like an idiot when you can’t string a sentence together.”

Kent looks back up at the ceiling, his throat burning. In the darkness, the ceiling looks as if it will float away at any moment.

And  _ God _ , Kent wants to do the same--if he floated away into the sky, then he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. But he’s trapped by gravity, by the sound of Jared’s voice grating in his ear.

“I’m gonna come tomorrow,” Kent says. “To get my stuff. I--I want my keys back. And--”

“Kent,” Jared says, and oh, how soft and sweet his voice is, “do you really think this is going to last? You really think this one is gonna stick around?”

Kent shoves his hair back, his throat tightening.

“It’s not--he’s not--” Bittle isn’t a friend. He isn’t really  _ anything _ to Kent, if he’s being honest. But Kent doesn’t know how to explain this to Jared. He doesn’t even know what  _ this _ is. “It’s just--”

“Remember Andrew?” Jared asks. “You really want this to end the same way?”

For a moment, it feels like Kent can’t even breathe, as if Jared punched him in the throat and Kent is choking on blood. 

_ “Fuck _ you,” Kent whispers.

Jared starts to talk, but Kent hangs up before he can hear what Jared has to say. For a moment, all Kent can do is stare at his screen, at the white of his knuckles as he clenches his phone.

Kent collapses back in the bed, his phone slipping through his fingers onto the floor. His eyes are burning, and he can barely breathe, and  _ why won’t his hands stop shaking? _

He’ll call Swoops in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting some messages from a few very concerned mutuals about Kit. Guys, I promise you that Kit is fine--I take tagging very seriously, and I would definitely warn you if this fic had animal abuse in it. (Also, there's just no possible way I could write that . . . just thinking about it makes me feel sick to my stomach.)
> 
> At some point in the fic, Kent will be worried about Kit, but nothing will happen to her. She's safe. Rest easy, friends.

When Kent wakes up, Bittle is already gone. There is a sticky note on the fridge saying that he will be at work until five and Kent is welcome to eat whatever. Rows and rows of cupcakes line the counter. 

Kent has a feeling Bittle wasn’t talking about cupcakes. He takes one anyway because cooking takes effort and they smell good, and who is Kent to turn away free baked goods?

Swoops still isn’t answering his phone. This is fine. This is understandable. Swoops is probably busy with work and family  _ and avoiding Kent-- _

Kent shoves another cupcake into his mouth.

Before he can think it through properly, he texts Swoops, his thumb smearing frosting over his screen.

**Kent: Swoops u dick answer ur fucking phone**

Kent blanches. 

No. No. He did  _ not _ just send that. 

**Kent: Wait no ur not a dick**

**Kent: Im so sorry**

**Kent: I just really need to talk to you plz call me**

Swoops does not answer, and Kent’s hands begin to tremble. 

_ You really think he’ll want to talk to you? After everything you said, after all the stupid shit you pulled? He’s probably glad to have you out of his life.  _

Except this can’t be true because the last time Kent saw Swoops, even after all the tears and screaming, he had grasped Kent by the shoulders and told him, “You’re an idiot, Parser, but if you ever need anything— _ anything _ —I promise I will be there.”

Kent was pretty out of it when that happened, though, so his memory of events might not be accurate. Because . . .  _ anything? _ Really? There are  _ always _ hidden clauses, unknown limits—people might think they mean  _ anything,  _ but the only people they’re fooling more than the recipients of their friendship are themselves. 

Unconditional love is a lie pandered by Hallmark and Disney.

Kent’s phone dings, and he grabs it a little more eagerly than he would like to admit.

**Swoops: I’m really sorry I think you have the wrong number? I just got a new phone**

Kent stares at the text, his throat tight, because this . . .

This was  _ not _ in the plan.

Swoops was supposed to answer so Kent could apologize. Then Swoops would pick Kent up and drive him to the house so Kent could grab his stuff, and Swoops would let Kent crash on his couch until Kent could find an apartment, and--

Kent eats another cupcake.

This is a minor setback. It’s not like Swoops would have helped Kent anyway, so a preemptive rejection is far better than setting himself up for a fall. Kent can carry out the rest of the steps with someone else.

The problem is, the plan relies rather heavily on that someone being a person who likes Kent (or at the very least, tolerates him). Swoops was the last one left, and Kent just  _ doesn’t have options anymore. _

Not for the first time, Kent thinks about calling Andrew. But that’s probably the last person Kent should call, especially after . . . well. Everything.

_ “Look, I just don’t think this is good for either of us. Too much baggage on both sides.” _

But it’s fine. Kent can just ask Bittle to drive him to the house, and then--

_ And then and then and then and then-- _

Kent rubs his face and inhales shakily. He’ll figure something out.

He has to.

.

The problem is, Kent is notoriously bad at  _ figuring things out.  _ Jack could certainly attest to that, along with every other person Kent has met. 

Kent met Jack the way most of his relationships began—in a swirl of complete and utter panic. Shockingly, Kent was not the one in the midst of chaos. 

It was Kent’s first year of college. Jack had an armful of papers, and their fellow students were watching with fascination as he and the wind fought for control. Kent had to admit, it was pretty amusing to watch him chase after papers only to lose more along the way. 

And Kent would normally have stood back and snickered a bit because, hey, if you’re making a fool of yourself on campus, you’re free game. Except there was a quiet panic in Jack’s eyes. Except Kent recognized the way Jack’s hands shook as he tried to snatch his papers back from the wind. Except Jack should have looked intimidating and large due to his height and stature, but he somehow managed to look small. 

So Kent grabbed the papers and handed them to Jack because what else was he supposed to do?

“Thanks,” Jack said. 

“Fuck’s sake, ever heard of a binder?” Kent asked before he could shut himself up. 

(This is Kent’s fatal flaw: he is never able to shut up when he is around Jack.)

“I forgot my backpack,” Jack said, “and I didn’t notice until it was too late. I thought about putting them in my pocket, but I didn’t want them to wrinkle, and then when they started blowing away, I thought about it again, but. Um.”

“Too late?” Kent asked.

“Too late,” Jack said sheepishly.

At this point in time, Kent didn’t even know Jack’s name. But as Kent looked at him--tall, awkward, shy, with a stack of syllabi clenched tightly in his hands--he couldn’t help thinking,  _ Oh. This is going to be fun. _

And it was, for a time, until it abruptly  _ wasn’t. _ Somehow it went from wanting to conquer the world together to spiteful words and cold silences. Smiles from Jack were rarities, and Kent tucked away every single one to remember on the days when Jack would barely look at him, lost as he was in his own mind.

After the overdose, Kent felt like he was the one losing himself. Jack didn’t want to see him. And okay, yes, objectively Kent should have  _ known _ he was being obnoxious and obsessive and needy, but.

Kent never was good at looking at things objectively. 

So Kent showed up at Jack’s rehab center. Kent left voicemail after voicemail, all starting and ending with variations of  _ I miss you, Zimms, please call me back, I know you miss me too.  _

Except apparently Jack didn’t miss him—or at least not enough to return his calls. Or texts. Or emails. Or letters. 

_ (Yes,  _ Kent knows now that he was acting like a creepy stalker.  _ Yes,  _ Kent knows he was being a complete dick, emotional manipulation drowning out whatever love Kent had to offer. But at the ages of eighteen through twenty-two, Kent was drowning in denial and guilt and anger and a love so painful it was more like hatred.)

And then Kent met Payton. 

Which, at the time, seemed like the best thing to ever happen to him, besides landing the job as a freelance editor, which honestly paled in comparison to Payton’s hands in Kent’s hair and his mouth on Kent’s. 

Kent fucked it up, of course. Work was crazy, and he ended up talking to the author of the book he was editing more than his boyfriend. Payton politely (after many terse arguments and cold nights) informed Kent that he didn’t want to do this and took off. 

Kent then met Bittle, which was a time of life he would like to bleach from his mind. Kent said and did a lot of embarrassing shit which would be ample blackmail material if Bittle weren’t embarrassed by it, too. 

Anyway. Moving along. 

Kent met Cal. Kent met Jared. Kent met Andrew. 

And  _ God, _ it hurts to think about Andrew, even now. Because Andrew? Was so fucking good and kind and loving, and Kent  _ still _ managed to screw things up. 

Kent then went back to Jared.

Really, Kent shouldn’t be surprised that he can’t figure out where to go from here because he  _ knew,  _ okay? He  _ knew _ what Jared was like, and he still went back. 

So this moment—in Eric Bittle’s kitchen, surrounded by cupcakes and Bittle’s perfect, perfect life—Kent really doesn’t have any right to complain, no matter how much everything is crashing down, no matter the fact that asking Swoops for help is a lost cause, no matter the fact that Kit is out of reach—

Kent’s life is a trail of dominoes, and he long ago knocked the first one down. 

.

When Bitty comes back home, something about the kitchen seems off.

There aren’t any crumbs on the floor. 

Bitty isn’t a  _ slob, _ per se, but he’s definitely not the neatest person in the city. It used to drive Jack up the wall, the way Bitty would just absentmindedly leave messes around the house. 

In any case, Bitty can distinctly remember making a mental note to clean up once he got off work (with the knowledge that it probably wouldn’t happen). Yet the kitchen is spotless, save for a smudge or two here and there. Parse must have cleaned, which is fine and polite and acceptable, but something about it just feels wrong. 

The cupcakes still line the counter, and Bitty can tell that some of them are gone. But they’ve been rearranged to hide any gaps, which causes alarm bells to go off in Bitty’s mind for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on.

The house is so quiet--Bitty would think that Parse had already left if not for the scuffed Nikes by the door. Parse is probably sleeping. Bitty wishes  _ he _ were sleeping.

He can’t quite bring himself to go to bed, though, because it’s only five at night. Also, he can tell his brain won’t shut up enough for him to fall asleep.

_ Cupcakes, _ his brain says helpfully.

_What does that even_ ** _mean?_** he demands, exasperated.

Unfortunately, while his mind might have picked up on a situation, Bitty is far too exhausted to think of a coherent way to  _ explain _ the situation. Just . . . cupcakes.

_ Thanks a lot, subconscious, _ Bitty thinks sourly.

He might as well ask Parse if he wants any supper.

When Bitty knocks softly on the guest bedroom door, there is no answer. Bitty frowns and knocks a little more firmly, and the door gives way under his hand. Parse sits on the bed, staring down at his phone. He could be anyone, scrolling mindlessly through social media.

Except the screen is black, and Parse isn’t looking at his phone so much as staring in its approximate direction.

Against Bitty’s will, something twists painfully inside his chest. 

Bitty clears his throat quietly. Parse’s head shoots up, and he immediately goes stiff under Bitty’s gaze. 

“I’m gonna make some supper,” Bitty says. “You want some?”

Parse looks at him as if searching for hidden landmines, and the tightness spreads up Bitty’s throat.

“I’m not very hungry,” Parse says carefully.

And okay, it’s none of Bitty’s business if Parse doesn’t want to eat. He’s probably stressed, and stress makes it difficult to consume food, so Bitty understands. He really does. But if it weren’t for the clean floor and missing cupcakes, Bitty would think that Parse hadn’t left the room all day, hunched into himself the way he is. And the  _ cupcakes-- _

All of a sudden, Bitty understands why the cupcakes bothered him so much.

Parse obviously ate some. _ (Please let him have eaten more than just cupcakes, Lord, please.)  _ But he took the time to make it  _ look  _ like he didn’t, and something about that makes Bitty ache inside.

_ Fine, _ he mentally hisses.  _ I’ll let you feel sorry for him. But that’s  _ **_it._ **

Bitty goes back to the kitchen and viciously chops onions until he feels better about life. 

.

About an hour later, Bitty is back at Parse’s door with a plate full of stir fry. 

Say what others will about those from the South—Bitty will be damned before he lets someone in his home go hungry. 

Parse eyes the food warily but stills accepts it, mumbling out a thanks.

“Need a charger for your phone?” Bitty asks.

Parse’s eyes flicker with surprise. 

“If you don’t mind,” he says cautiously. 

Bitty turns to leave. 

“Wait.” Bitty turns with a raised eyebrow, and Parse flushes. “I . . . Could you drive me to the house? Just so I can pick up my stuff—I promise I’ll be out of your hair afterwards, and I’ll pay you back for gas. I just don’t, um. I don’t have anything right now, and I—“

“Sure, honey,” Bitty says, tiredness seeping into his voice. 

Parse freezes, his shoulders stiffening, and Bitty winces. The  _ honey’ _ s and  _ sugar’ _ s just slip out when he’s talking to people, which usually isn’t a problem, except—

It’s Parse. 

Parse, who takes everything a little too literally. Parse, who’s all sunny flirtation and biting wit until he gets pushed too far, and then it isn’t witty anymore; it’s just cruel. Parse, who recently got shoved out into the snow by someone he had every right to trust. Parse, who swept Bitty’s floor and rearranged Bitty’s cupcakes to try to hide any signs that he was there. 

Not for the first time, Bitty can’t help but wish that Parse were a little bit easier to categorize. 

A few minutes later, Bitty is once again driving with Parse in the seat beside him. 

Parse is quiet, picking at the frayed threads of his jeans. All of a sudden, Bitty realizes that Parse is wearing yesterday’s clothes, which should have been obvious because  _ of course _ Parse wouldn’t have had a change of clothes. 

_ Stupid. _

And Bitty calls himself a good host. 

It’s not like his clothes would fit Parse, but Jack left behind a bunch of things, clothes being one of them. Of course,  _ his _ clothes wouldn’t fit Parse, either, but a few sizes too big would be better than a few sizes too small and certainly better than the stale clothes of yesterday. Jack—

All of a sudden, Bitty’s eyes are stinging.  _ Damn it.  _ He promised himself that he wouldn’t get weepy about this. 

Jack has been annoyingly mature about this, and Bitty is honestly trying to be, too. But he’s so tired of going to bed and waking up without Jack there. He doesn’t get the whole  _ needing space _ aspect of their last conversation—they’ve  _ always _ given each other adequate space, settled as they are in their own routines. 

“Are you sick?” Parse asks. 

Bitty feels his brow furrow, and he looks at Parse from the corner of his eye. 

“Why?”

“You look miserable.”

Bitty inhales sharply, a steady throb behind his eyes. 

Because  _ glory be,  _ Bitty is absolutely  _ thrilled _ that the guy who has more trouble Bitty can count is worried about  _ him.  _

“I’m just tired,” Bitty says. 

.

Kent counts to ten. 

He feels curiously empty right now, which is only worsened by the dead silence in the car. Bittle doesn’t have any music playing, which would normally be fine if they were actually  _ talking.  _ But Kent has no idea what to say, and Bittle is just sitting there, his lips tight and eyes locked ahead like the responsible driver he is.

Kent would usually fill the silence with an abundance of idle chatter. Usually. But he’s pretty sure that the only thing holding back Bittle’s contempt right now is his pity, and Kent would rather not walk the rest of the way to his house. 

_ The _ house, not  _ his _ house _.  _ Kent moved in with Jared, not the other way around. 

Moved by a sudden desperate desire not to think about Jared, Kent opens his mouth. He doesn’t get so much as a word out before Bittle abruptly reaches over and switches the radio on. 

. . . Right. 

It’s not a big deal. Bittle probably didn’t even notice Kent was about to speak, and it’s not like he was going to  _ say  _ anything, anyway. 

Still, Kent spends the rest of the car ride fantasizing about throwing himself from the car to the sound of The Greatest Hits from the 90’s to Now!

“When we get there,” Bittle says, “do you want me to come in, too?”

“No!” Kent blurts out, his pulse pounding loudly. 

Bittle is studying Kent out of the corner of his eye once again, and Kent silently curses himself. But the thought of Jared talking to Bittle or even just  _ looking  _ at him makes Kent want to throw up because Kent is  _ so fucked up,  _ and one interaction with Jared would be enough for Bittle to see. Bittle already knows on some level how messed up Kent is—any more, and Kent will be back in the snow, with even less options than he already has. 

Bittle pulls up next to the house, and Kent straightens, unbuckling his seatbelt. 

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Kent is going to go in and get his stuff, and then he’ll be  _ fine.  _

Jared might not even be home. It’s what, six thirty? He’s probably out with his office buddies, talking shit about what a whiny little bitch Kent is, and  _ god,  _ Kent did  _ not _ think this through. 

He doesn’t have his key. He’ll have to break in. Only, if Jared is at home, and Kent breaks a window in front of him, then fuck fuck  _ fuck, why did Kent think he could do this? _

“Parse?”

Jared will want Kent to pay for repairs for the window, and Kent will have to do it because you break it, you buy it. But Kent honestly can’t remember how much money he has in his account, and for all he knows, Jared already took what little was left. 

Kent should knock. It’s the logical course of action, and it takes minimal effort. Only, Jared didn’t let Kent in last night, so why the Hell would he now? Or maybe he will let Kent back in, and then he won’t be able to leave because he always,  _ always  _ caves. 

“Parse, hon, I need you to breathe.”

“I can’t,” Kent chokes out. “I can’t I can’t I  _ can’t—I’m sorry,  _ please, I can’t—“

All of a sudden, Bittle is gone. Kent can’t quite process what’s happening or where he went. He can barely move, and he’s not getting enough air, and  _ he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do— _

His door flings open, and then Bittle’s arms are around his shoulders, Kent’s face pressed into Bittle’s neck. Kent thinks he’s talking—there’s noise in his ears, and he can feel Bittle’s throat vibrating against his head. 

It’s soothing in an odd way, the warm pressure of another person around him and the soft murmur of sound Kent can’t quite decipher. 

_ “Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya.” _

Bittle is singing above Kent’s head, the whisper of breath ruffling his hair.

_ “She tied you to a kitchen chair; she broke your throne and she cut your hair.” _

Kent draws in a shuddering breath. 

_ “And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.” _

He takes another and another, and eventually, he is able to breathe. 

Bittle pulls back, his arms slipping away. 

Kent swallows thickly. He’s not really sure what to say. 

_ Hey, thanks for holding me during my mental breakdown and singing Hallelujah to calm me down. You’re a real one, Bits. _

“We can come back a different day if ya want,” Bittle says, getting back into the car.

Kent nods jerkily.

“Right,” he says, his voice cracking. He pulls his door shut, his hands still slightly shaky. “Um. Thanks. For the . . .”

He gestures somewhat helplessly, but Bittle seems to understand. 

“It always helped Jack,” Bittle says, eyes straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. 

Kent winces for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. 

Because  _ of course.  _ Why wouldn’t Mr. Perfect know all the right things to pull Jack back from the edge?

No wonder Jack loves him. 

.

A little bit after they get back to his house, Bittle presses a mug of tea into Kent’s hands. 

They’re sitting in the kitchen, and Kent isn’t sure why he’s here or what he’s supposed to do. So he sips his tea and avoids Bittle’s eyes and the dark shadows underneath. 

“I’m gonna ask ya something that might be slightly offensive, and you’re under no obligation to answer,” Bittle says abruptly. 

Kent feels his eyes twitch. He forces himself to meet Bittle’s gaze and finds that his stomach twists at the sight. Bittle looks worried and tense, and Jack is going to fucking kill Kent when he sees what he has put Bittle through. 

“Are you sure,” Bittle says slowly, reluctantly, “that ya don’t want to call the police?”

Kent feels his breath catch because . . . 

Because Bittle has completely misinterpreted the situation. It’s Kent’s fault, of course, because what is Bittle  _ supposed  _ to think based on how Kent has been acting?

“He never hit me,” Kent blurts out. 

Bittles’ eyebrows furrow slightly. Kent gets a lump in his throat because he can  _ tell.  _ He can tell Bittle doesn’t believe him. 

“I mean,” Kent says, then clears his throat roughly. “I mean, we had arguments. But he never—he never hurt me or anything. It wasn’t—it’s not like that.”

And okay, there was one time when Jared was screaming at Kent and wouldn’t stop no matter how much Kent backed away, and he really thought that Jared was  _ going _ to hit him, but he didn’t. Kent was just panicking. He wasn’t thinking straight, and if he had been calm, he would have known that  _ of course _ Jared wouldn’t hit him. And there was another time when Jared grabbed Kent by his shirt, and he could barely  _ breathe, _ but all Jared did was yell at him. And really, what couples don’t shout at each other? 

(Kent and Jack never did, but they were just a couple of dumb kids, and Jack is too nice to yell, no matter how pissed off he gets. It was all cold silences and sharp words on both sides because they were too immature to ever  _ talk _ to each other.)

“You’re scared of him,” Bittle says. 

It’s not a question. 

Kent looks down at his hands, fiddling with the handle of the mug. 

“I’m just . . . kinda messed up,” he mumbles into the steam of his tea. “It’s not his fault I have issues.”

Bittle doesn’t answer, and eventually, Kent leaves the kitchen to go to bed. 

.

That night, Bitty bakes cupcakes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long lol school has been crazy and I got really distracted [writing this parswoops fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010881/)
> 
> Anyway let me know what you think! I love hearing from you guys 💙💙💙

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated! [Or come chat with me on tumblr!](https://trashynishiki.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As always, feel free to lmk if I made an error--I write these high on sleep deprivation without a beta lol


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